


The Boredom Solution

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry John, Angry Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Flirting Sherlock, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, Happy Ending, Jam, Jealous John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Making Up, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment (but no pain), Sherlock in Panties, Sherlock in knickers, Smut, Story: The Adventure of Black Peter, Top John Watson, Wall Sex, beginning of relationship, headhopping pov, knickers with bees, pink floyd - Freeform, so much fun with blackberry jam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-16 18:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Sherlock is bored. The appearance of a new Scotland Yard detective provides an opportunity  to make John jealous. John retaliates in a very satisfying way.  Oh, and did I mention that there is Sherlock in knickers, and some fun with jam?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Tea and Toast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294871) by [elldotsee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee). 



> Stanley Hopkins is the young detective in A.C. Doyle's The Adventure of Black Peter. The case in this fic is loosely based on that story. Thank you to Elldotsee for letting me borrow her blackberry jam from the lovely fic "Of Tea and Toast". For those of you familiar with London and Baker Street - I know that The Volunteer Pub would not be on John's way home from Baker Street Station - I moved it for this story. King's College does not have an Anthropology department. I made this up. Special thanks to SH_JW_2010 for britpicking. Thank you Target for selling me the cute pair of "knickers" with bees on them that was the original inspiration for this fic.

_October 2009_

The first time they made love was in a hotel room in the remote, but beautiful seaside village of Branscombe, in Devon. They had been invited there by the local police to help solve a serial murder case. Four men had been brutally stabbed, and the locals were clamouring for an arrest.  In desperation, they called Sherlock.  Branscombe was a small town, and to John’s dismay, they could find accommodations only in a single room above a local pub. Sherlock seemed unperturbed by this and pointed out that sharing a room would save money.  The arrangement was awkward and uncomfortable for John. He had been inwardly struggling with his attraction to Sherlock for some time and was nervous about being so close to him. Each night, John scooted to the edge of the rather small bed as Sherlock, oblivious, sprawled across it with his usual disregard for personal space. John had lain awake for hours, listening to Sherlock’s breathing and watching his chest rise and fall in the moonlight that shone through the window. Watching Sherlock sleep fascinated him in a way he couldn’t understand. Everything about Sherlock fascinated him.

On the second to the last night in Branscombe, as they slept, Sherlock’s hand passed over John’s and stayed there. A ripple of pleasure passed through John’s body as the touch woke him.  It was bound to have happened, this accidental contact. As John revelled in the feeling of that warm hand, Sherlock’s fingers curled around John’s so that instead of just touching John’s hand, he was holding it.  Sherlock’s even breathing continued,and he appeared to be asleep. John stared at the ceiling and stayed as still as possible. Eventually, sleep overcame him, too. He woke the next morning to find the hand, and the person attached to it, already out of bed. If Sherlock had awoken to find them holding hands, he didn’t mention it.

They went about their work of wrapping up the case with Sherlock dramatically (of course) revealing the murderer to be a local school teacher, Elizabeth Harrison. She would become known in village lore as “Bloody Bess” and would remain the only female serial murderer they would encounter in their long career. After her arrest, Sherlock was in a fine mood, which was generally the case when the authorities were forced to acknowledge his brilliance and superior intellect. By that evening, word of the arrest of Bloody Bess had spread through the terrorized village and Sherlock and John were practically celebrities.

The residents staged a celebration that night at the pub below Sherlock and John’s room. Parties were not something Sherlock normally liked, there would be far too much human interaction expected of him, but the proprietor insisted. Sherlock ended up thoroughly enjoying himself, bragging to the locals about his deductions and observations. John drank pint after pint, while basking in the praise and gratitude of the crowd.  After some time, high on adulation and residual adrenaline, they went up to their room, laughing as they climbed the stairs.

“That was fucking fantastic,” John said. “What are we going to call it?”

“For the blog? I don’t know, you choose.”

“I’m thinking ‘The Adventure of Terrible Teacher’.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, noncommittally, falling across the bed on his back.

Looking down at his friend, and without thinking, John blurted out “Have I told you lately how brilliant you are?”

“Not nearly enough John, tell me again,” Sherlock said, not missing a beat.

“You cheeky git!” John said as he flopped down on the bed beside Sherlock. 

And that is how it began.

John gets the credit for making the first move, or maybe Sherlock does, for the handholding the night before. It really doesn’t matter. On the bed, at that moment, kissing just seemed right and so John did. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock sweetly and Sherlock responded by lacing his fingers behind John’s head. It was a long, deep kiss. Their mouths slotted together perfectly and it felt like coming home. They parted, looked into each other’s eyes, and kissed again.  There was no conversation, no need for it, they understood one another completely.

I could tell you that John slowly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and that they spent hours whispering endearments and making love, but that is not how it happened. Not at all. The next morning, perhaps, but not that first night. They are _men_ after all. That night they rutted against one another, they devoured each other hungrily. Rolling on the bed, John on top, now Sherlock, then John again, and once actually falling from the bed to the floor and finding it too uncomfortable, climbing back on, barely taking their mouths from one another in the process. Impatiently and urgently, they undressed. Sherlock managing to pull off John’s jumper and John simply ripping open Sherlock’s shirt, sending buttons flying. Trousers, pants and shoes were hastily undone and kicked off. Socks were left on. Legs tangled, mouths roamed, sucked, bit and licked.

They had no lube, so saliva and pre-ejaculate were put to good use. Sherlock’s hand, being much larger and more suited to the task, grasped both of them as he lay beside John, one leg flung over him, moving his hand up and down, as he buried his face in John’s hair, inhaling him, the smell sending thrills through his body. The “John-ness” of him was overwhelming.  He had waited for this night for so long.

John twisted the fingers of one hand in Sherlock’s hair and with the other gripped his arse. There was no sound except that of their shallow breathing and the muffled sounds from the pub below as they moved together.

John came first with a loud moan, his semen spurting onto Sherlock’s hand and his own belly.  With this new lubrication, Sherlock sped up his strokes, and his own orgasm washed over him, his semen joining and mixing with John’s.  As he came, the first words of the encounter were uttered.

“Johhhnnn..., Johhhnnn..., Johhhnnn.”

John will remember those words, whispered in Sherlock’s sultry baritone, for the rest of his life.  A reminder of the day he was changed and his new life began.  

*****

There was no going back to just friends.  The die was cast, the genie let out of the bottle, the Rubicon crossed. Pick your cliché. They returned to Baker Street a couple. No one was surprised (in truth, most wondered what had taken so long), and they made no pains to hide it. Life at 221B went on as usual with the addition of sex. Blow jobs in the hallway, shagging on the stairs, in Sherlock’s chair, in John’s chair, in Regent’s Park. They had each other in every way it was possible to be had and on every surface. Then, slowly, as sometimes happens, things settled into a certain “sameness”.  Comfortable, but Sherlock Holmes was not one to be satisfied with “comfortable". 


	2. Chapter 2

_September 2010_

“Lestrade wants us at Scotland Yard,” John said, looking at the text Detective Inspector Lestrade had sent to each of them as they were finishing breakfast one beautiful September morning. “Maybe a new case?  I’ve got to work all day. Fill me in tonight?”

“He can come here if he needs me.  What am I, his servant? Text him back and tell him he knows where to find me.”

“Can’t you?”

“Too busy. I’m going to be working on a new experiment today,” Sherlock said, already bustling around the kitchen, retrieving chemicals and equipment from the cupboards.  Once they began sharing Sherlock’s bedroom, they considered making John’s room a lab for Sherlock, but it proved unsuitable due to the lack of water and the relative isolation of it (Sherlock would disappear into it for hours on end and forget to eat or sleep). Thus, the makeshift lab remained in the kitchen, and John’s old room became storage. John kept most of his clothes there.  There was simply not enough room in the modest wardrobe and chest of drawers in the main-floor bedroom for both of their clothing.  This was a point of contention at first. Sherlock was unwilling to give up much space, suggesting that John should get rid of some of his bulkier (and uglier) jumpers.  Ultimately, John had resigned himself to tramping up the stairs to dress. It was just easier to appease Sherlock in this matter.  With Sherlock, you had to pick your battles.

John sighed, and sent the text.

John finished his breakfast, gave Sherlock a quick kiss (too quick, thought Sherlock petulantly), and left for work. As soon as John was gone, Sherlock walked to the window and watched him walk toward Baker Street Station. Sherlock watched him from the window almost every day.  Maybe it was his OCD, but for whatever reason, he did it. Watching John’s confident, quick stride down the pavement was part of his morning routine and felt comforting somehow.

John had been working a lot lately, coming home exhausted, without much energy left for Sherlock.  A colleague at the surgery had quit, and John was picking up extra shifts until the position could be filled. The money came in handy. John’s army pension was modest, and Sherlock’s income from being a consulting detective was erratic.  If the case was interesting enough, and the client couldn’t pay, Sherlock took the case for the pure fun of it.  Fun didn’t pay the rent, however, as John was quick to remind him.

Sherlock didn’t care about rent. He cared about John’s attention.  He craved it. He remembered their first night together. In his mind, their “first night” was not the one they spent above the pub in Branscombe, but the one they spent together working on the “Pink” case.  He had felt little thrills of pleasure at each “fantastic” and “amazing”. John had been so authentic in his appreciation for Sherlock’s genius, and his admiration was not self –deprecating or sycophantic.  John was his own man.  This combination was an aphrodisiac to Sherlock, and he had made up his mind about John right then.  After that, Sherlock simply waited patiently for John to figure things out for himself.

Sherlock sighed and turned from the window with a little frown of frustration.  He wanted the old John back, he wanted a good case, wanted an unplanned after-dinner shag in an alley, he just wanted… _something_. He was BORED.  Sherlock’s brain was zinging about, but it had nothing to latch onto.  His rapid-fire thoughts needed either an outlet or a dose of something to calm them. Since John and Sherlock had been together, he promised John that he would not resort to self-medication, and he had kept his word.  He paced the floor, looking at his watch.  He wondered what kind of a case Lestrade had for him. He hoped that it would not be dull.  _Please, please, a seven at least._  The criminal classes of London seemed to be on an extended holiday, and it was downright infuriating.

However anxious he was to have a new and exciting case, he was not about to go begging to Scotland Yard.  As a consulting detective – correction, _The_ Consulting Detective, he did not go to Scotland Yard, Scotland Yard came to him.  He went about setting up his equipment on the kitchen table. He would be able to do most of it here, but it might require a trip to St. Bart’s at some point to use one of the more powerful microscopes.  He had not been able to convince Molly to let him “borrow” one.  Now that he was with John, he found it harder to use his charm to get what he wanted from her.

Around 4 o’clock, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson escorted Detective Inspector Lestrade into the flat.  “Sherlock, you have guests!” she sang out. Oh, just great, he brought Sally, Sherlock thought with annoyance. 

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope and saw Greg and, _not Sally._ With Lestrade was a young man that Sherlock had never seen before.  He was tall, slender but muscular, and just a bit shorter than Sherlock, with deep brown eyes, and short dark hair.  Sherlock’s eyes took in a thousand less obvious details followed by his equally quick brain cataloguing and deducing.

_Expensive clothing on a detective’s salary – family money?_

_No pet hairs_

_Lower face a shade lighter than the rest – just shaved off his beard.  For whom?_

_Shoes, trendy_

_Jewellery – none - not married_

_Smell – can’t smell him yet_

_Nails - manicured_

_Gay. Definitely gay_

“Sherlock, this is Detective Hopkins.”

“Please, call me Stan,” the man said, approaching Sherlock and extending his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said rising and shaking the man’s hand while inhaling.

_Smell – vanilla, tobacco… Tobacco Vanille by Tom Ford. Expensive… and nice._

“I know,” Stan said, still pumping Sherlock’s hand. “I’m so excited to be finally meeting you, you are a legend!”

Sherlock side-eyed Lestrade. This was not generally the response he got from Scotland Yard detectives, especially not those who had spent any time with Sally Donovan or Philip Anderson.

“He’s new,” Lestrade said, understanding Sherlock’s look. 

“Mrs Hudson, would you please fetch us some tea?” Sherlock requested.

“Not your housekeeper dear, and I’m late for my Zumba class,” Mrs Hudson said over her shoulder, already on her way out of the flat.

Scowling, Sherlock went about making tea for his guests.

Soon they were seated in the living room. “So, tell me about the case,” Sherlock demanded, hands steepled in front of his face, looking hopeful. 

“It’s a murder,” Lestrade said. A professor at King’s College, Peter Carey, was found murdered in his office last Wednesday.  You might have seen it in the papers.  You would have noticed it because he was killed in a rather unusual way.”

“I notice all murders, and yes, I did see that. A spear, correct?”

“Driven right through him and into the wall.  His secretary found him hanging there Wednesday morning when she got there about nine.  Molly tells us he had been dead for eight to ten hours, so he was probably killed late Tuesday night.”

“Any suspects?” 

“One possibility, a bloke named John Hopley, Carey’s research assistant. They had been seen in a pretty heated argument the day before. He claims that he had nothing to do with it, of course, and his alibi is his wife. Says he was home watching telly. Other than the argument, we don’t have anything solid on him, but I have a strong gut feeling he’s our man. I was hoping you could help us find something to prove he did it.”

Sherlock practically snorted, derision plain in his voice. “With all due respect to your ‘ _gut feeling’_ , Lestrade, I require data.  Tell me about the crime scene. Do you have pictures?” 

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, passing a folder to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the folder and glanced through the photos. The first picture was of a middle-aged black man slumped against a wall with a long wooden pole protruding from his chest. He was in a cluttered office which had African art and masks on the walls, and piles of books on the shelves and floor. The next picture was of the spear itself, after having been removed.  It was about four feet long and had a flat iron blade with a sharp point. 

“An Assegai,” Sherlock said.

 “What?”

“He was killed with an Assegai, a weapon common in Africa before the introduction of firearms.  The Zulu and Nguni tribes of South Africa are the most well known for their use of it.  Did it belong to him?”

Lestrade and Hopkins exchanged a glance.  “Yeah, it was his.  He was an Anthropology professor, and African culture was his speciality.  He travelled frequently to Africa and brought back that spear on this last trip.”

Sherlock continued looking through the pictures.  The next one was a close-up of the floor near the dead man’s feet.  There was a pocket knife lying on the floor; the initials “P.C.” clearly visible on it.

“That’s obviously Carey’s too,” said Stan.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock mused. “Possible, but there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”

Next was a picture of the desk.  Sherlock noted two items of interest, a notepad with the numbers “NW 2400-88” written in pencil and two glasses, one empty, and one with a few inches of amber liquid, probably whiskey from the bottle that stood nearby.  

“We didn’t find any fingerprints on the weapon, the glasses, or the bottle,” Lestrade said.

The last picture in the folder was that of John Hopley, a small, bookish-looking man with a thin moustache and spectacles.

“Any ideas Sherlock?” Lestrade asked? 

“Seven,” Sherlock replied.  When will I be able to examine the crime scene? “

“Stan and I can meet you there tomorrow.  I’ll text you in the morning with details.”

The two men rose to leave.

 “Sherlock, do you think sometime you could tell me about some of your cases? I mean, I read Doctor Watson’s blog religiously, but I’d love to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth,” Stan said, his dark eyes looked beseeching into Sherlock’s blue ones.  This made Sherlock unaccountably warm, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m terribly busy,” he said quickly, looking away.

“Oh, I’m sure you are, I just thought maybe sometime when you aren’t…,” Stan said, hopefully.

“Aw, Sherlock loves talking about himself, so I’m sure he’d be happy to tell you at great length how wonderful he is and what complete idiots we all are,” Lestrade said. 

“Well, not complete,” Sherlock said.

“That’s about the closest we’ll get to a compliment from him,” Lestrade chuckled.  

 They heard approaching footsteps, and John walked through the door.

“John!” Lestrade said, “We were just leaving.  Sherlock can fill you in on the case.  It’s a real puzzler.”

“Detective Stan Hopkins,” said Stan, shaking John’s hand. “I’m a big fan of your blog!”

“Pleasure,” John said.

Turning to Sherlock, Stan said, “I look forward to working with you.” He placed his left hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he pumped his right hand enthusiastically.  Sherlock felt something pressed into his palm, and he quickly put it into his pocket.  He knew without looking exactly what it was, Stan’s mobile number.  

The detectives left, and John walked into the kitchen, surveying the kitchen table and countertops, cluttered with the microscope, chemicals, beakers, and a jar of what appeared to be dead rats (it could be worse, John thought).

“I thought maybe you could get take-away,” said Sherlock sheepishly, “I didn’t have time to clean all this up.”

“Me? Aren’t you eating?”

“No, I've got a case, of course, I’m not eating. I’ll tell you all about it while you do, though. Then I’m going to do some alone thinking.  Have you seen my nicotine patches?”

“Are you sure the case is what you’re going to think about?” asked John, with an edge in his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I haven’t lived with the most observant man in the universe without picking up some observation skills myself, and I _observed_ that Stan was making googly eyes at you and you were enjoying it.  I further _observed_ that as he left, you were looking at his arse.” 

John spoke quietly, but Sherlock could hear the undercurrent of anger.  John did have a temper, and they had had shouting matches in the past, usually over trivial things, but when he spoke in this quiet, controlled voice, accompanied by the darkening of his blue eyes, Sherlock knew he needed to be careful.

“John,” Sherlock said, as lightly as he could manage.  “He’s a young detective and we – both of us, are his heroes – thanks to your blog.  He’s just overly enthusiastic, and I think you are imagining things.  Are you jealous, John?”

“Should I be?”

“No, of course not.”

John was not convinced, and he _was_ jealous. Jealous of the tall, young, handsome detective.  When they went out together, Sherlock always got the attention; John was used to this. He was taller, louder, smarter, and dammit he was just… _Sherlock._ Everyone wanted him, but John was always secure in the knowledge that Sherlock wanted only John. He belonged to John.  But the way Sherlock had looked at Stan…. and right in front of him no less.  An insidious black snake of doubt slithered into John’s mind.

“I saw what I saw, Sherlock. I’m going out to get some food,” John said tersely, as he picked up his jacket and walked out of the flat without kissing Sherlock goodbye.

Sherlock watched him leave. Perversely, a part of him was enjoying John’s reaction.  He wasn’t _really_ interested in Stan. He liked the flattery; he couldn’t deny this. And Stan _was_ attractive. However, he was more interested in provoking John, rousing him to action, refocusing John’s attention to him, where it belonged.   He fingered the slip of paper in his pocket.

When John returned, a couple of hours later, he was unsmiling and sullen, but he listened with interest as Sherlock briefed him on the case.

“So, Lestrade thinks it’s the research assistant,” John said. Makes sense, I mean Carey must have known or at least not been afraid of his killer, right?  Otherwise, why the two glasses? Any idea of what they were arguing about?

“Not yet, but I’ll find out.  Lestrade, as usual, has latched onto the most obvious answer and now wants to find facts to fit his premature conclusion.  I guess I should be grateful that Scotland Yard is so obtuse since I’m the beneficiary of it.   I’m meeting Lestrade and Sta.., Hopkins, at the crime scene tomorrow.

John’s face twitched a bit at this news, a fact that was not lost on Sherlock.

They watched telly for a while, without much conversation, then went to bed.

As they lay in the dark, side by side, John asked abruptly.

“Do you love me?”

“You know that I do.”

“I’m sorry that I got so jealous tonight.  It’s just that I can’t stand thinking of you with anyone else. I can’t stand thinking that you would want somebody else."

“I don’t."

 _I saw what I saw, and you looked,_ John thought unhappily but didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached for Sherlock’s hand and twined his fingers between Sherlock’s much longer ones.  Pulling Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, he kissed it.

“Let’s just forget about it,” John said.

“Yes.”

Sherlock moved closer and pressed his face against John’s shoulder. Eventually, they fell asleep. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

John had already committed to work at the surgery the next day or he would never have left Sherlock alone to work on the Carey case with Lestrade and Stan. _What were they doing right now? Was Sherlock enjoying Stan’s company? Was he comparing him to John? Was he trying to impress him?_ He kept looking at his watch during the day which seemed to go on forever. Finally, the last patient had been seen and John could go home. He had been thinking about Sherlock constantly. Maybe he had been too hard on him.  How could that Hopkins bloke help but be enamoured by Sherlock?  Finally, the day was over and John began his journey home. He was walking from the tube station up Baker Street when he thought he heard a familiar voice. He glanced across the street and saw a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. Outside The Volunteer, a Baker Street pub, stood Sherlock and Stan, holding pints of beer and laughing loudly. John just stood, transfixed. He felt like he had been punched in the stomach, and a cold rage began to build in him.

Sherlock and Stan were standing close together. Too close. They continued to converse and laugh as John stood, frozen on the pavement, staring.

Sherlock turned to go into the pub, maybe to use the loo. As he did, Stan gave Sherlock a little squeeze on the arse.

This was too much. John’s paralysis broke and he charged across Baker Street, ignoring the screeching tires and blaring horns. Stan looked up in horror as John rushed at him.

“You fucking prick,” yelled John through clenched teeth as he reached Stan, drew back a fist, and punched him in the nose, dropping him to the pavement. His glass of beer shattered and the contents splattered them as well as nearby patrons.

Sherlock had turned back as soon as he heard the screeching tires and stood in the doorway of the pub, mouth gaping.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and jerked him roughly out of the doorway.

“You. Home. Now.” he growled.

Before Stan could get up and fight back, John and Sherlock were running toward 221B.

Once inside the door, John slammed Sherlock against the wall, _The_ wall. The wall where they had leaned and laughed together that first night, where John had realized that he didn’t need his cane, where their story had begun. Where, only six months ago, John had knelt before Sherlock after attending a West End show because they couldn’t even make it up the stairs without having each other, John fumbling with Sherlock’s belt and zip and taking him in his mouth right there. 

The depth of John’s fury surprised Sherlock, and for once in his life he was speechless.

“I… I... I was just having a drink, he stammered.

“Sherlock Holmes does not ‘have a drink’ John hissed. When is the last time you went to a pub for a drink? And you went with _him?_   Sherlock I saw the two of you flirting. I saw him touch you.”

John released Sherlock and paced back and forth in front of him, running his fingers through his hair.

A door creaked and Mrs Hudson peered out at them.

“Boys, is everything all right?” she inquired.

“Sorry Mrs Hudson, we were just headed upstairs,” said Sherlock.

They went up to the flat where John directed Sherlock to sit and Sherlock obeyed.

“I’m waiting,” said John.

“John, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You flirted with another man. _That_ man, after last night, and you are ‘sorry’?” John said in his scary quiet voice. “Well, that’s just fucking great! Just fine. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Why did you do it, Sherlock, Why?”

“John, if you really must know, I wanted to make you jealous.”

John glared at Sherlock and one side of his mouth twitched. “What?”

“Lately it seems like you are always working, always tired when you get home. I’m feeling a bit neglected. You know how I am. I was bored."

John could not believe what he was hearing, and, abandoning the “quiet voice”, began to yell.

“You did this to me because you were _bored?_ I just punched a fucking Scotland Yard detective. I’m surprised we don’t hear the sirens yet. I could go to jail! And yeah, Sherlock, I _do_ know how you are. You are a self-centred arrogant dick who never gives a shit about other peoples’ feelings. Including mine, apparently. Always after the rush, no matter who gets hurt along the way. Do you know how that made me feel?  How scared? How betrayed? Damn you!”

“John, I am sorry that I took things too far,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “Everything you just said is true, and you deserve better. I love you; you know that. How can I make this up to you?  I’ll do anything,” Sherlock pled, rising and reaching out to John for an embrace. He really was sorry.

John backed away. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“I’m going out Sherlock,” John said abruptly, turning and walking towards the door. “Don’t wait up.” The door slammed behind him.

Sherlock did wait. He waited up until after midnight and finally went to bed.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, John was not in bed with him. However, there was a small box, powder pink and topped with a black bow, on the bedside table with a note. A gift from John? Sherlock sat on the side of the bed, opened the note, and began to read.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

_Sherlock,_

_After much consideration, I have decided to take you up on your offer of “anything”.  I’m going to punish you for being such an utter shit. Open the box and put on what’s inside, nothing else. No questions, just do it. For the rest of the weekend, you will do exactly what I tell you to do. You will not pout. You will not complain. You will not argue. One more thing. You will not, under any circumstances, have an orgasm. Not until I allow it._

_John_

Sherlock dropped the note to the bed and picked up the box, trying to deduce what it was.  Something to wear, obviously. Lightweight, small, not wrapped by John, but by some expensive store. The pink and black packaging was distinctive and somehow familiar. _Agent Provocateur?_ They had spent some time at the Agent Provocateur lingerie boutique in Soho on a case last year.  Realization dawned on Sherlock. He knew what was inside the box.

Slowly, he removed the black bow. Lifting the lid from the box, he found a delicate pair of lace knickers nestled in tissue paper. Using his thumb and forefinger, as if he were picking up something distasteful, he lifted them from the box and held them up in front of his face. They were a rich, red colour, _the colour of fresh blood._  The lace was finely made and scalloped around the edges. Sherlock rubbed the material between his fingers. John expected him to wear this?  He looked at them doubtfully, wondering how he was going to fit his bits into them. He was going to look ridiculous.

He dropped them back into the box, and with his elbows on this knees, ran his hands through his hair, thinking. He had promised he’d do anything, hadn’t he?  He picked up the note and re-read it. John’s tone was _commanding_. A small smile crept to his lips as tendrils of anticipation began to unfurl in his belly. _Could be fun, maybe the old John would appear._

After showering, Sherlock stepped into the knickers and pulled them up slowly over his long legs. They weren’t scratchy as he expected. Soft, actually. He pulled them past his narrow hips and tucked in his penis and bollocks.  Having been made for a woman, there was not quite enough room for them, and it took a few minutes to find a comfortable arrangement.

He surveyed himself in the mirror, critically. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. He put on his dressing gown and taking a deep breath, walked out into the living room.

John was sitting in his chair reading the paper. “So, you wearing them?” he asked.

Wordlessly, Sherlock walked over to John, opened his dressing gown, and dropped it to the floor.

John gulped and tried to maintain a stern face. He was, in fact, still angry and jealous, _but this_.  He was not quite prepared for this sight. John had seen Sherlock in almost every conceivable sexual pose, bent over the kitchen table, tied to the bed, folded up, knees to ears below John, _but this, Oh dear God_.

Sherlock looked like a marble statue. His pale skin contrasted with the blood red knickers in a most pleasing way. Pleasing?  It was utterly, spectacularly, mind-bendingly, _hot_. His long legs, the sinewy muscles, the trail of dark hair running from just below his navel down to the scalloped lace which was almost overflowing with Sherlock’s cock. He looked like an angel. If there had been wings sprouting from his shoulders, they would not look out of place. Slowly, John looked up to Sherlock’s eyes, fringed with his still-damp curls and boring into him intently.

Sherlock still felt ridiculous, but he was intrigued by John’s reaction.  He observed the dilated pupils and the change in John’s breathing and expression.  John had licked his lips.  _Yes, this was going to be just fine_.

John reached out and traced a finger from Sherlock’s stomach down to the lace and further still to Sherlock’s hardening penis beneath it. It twitched at John’s touch. He looked again into Sherlock’s eyes. In the small part of John’s brain that was still functioning properly, he realised that he was going to have to adjust his plans for the day. He was going to have to have Sherlock very soon, or he was simply going to come in his pants.

He sat back and took a deep breath, composing himself.

“Sherlock, here is how it is going to go. You are going to walk into the kitchen and make _me_ some tea and toast for a change.  While you are in the flat today, you will stay dressed just as you are, whether I’m here or not. We are going out tonight, and you will wear that under your suit. You will do as I tell you, and no matter what, you will not touch yourself, and you will not come. Same goes for tomorrow. If you have obeyed my rules, then tomorrow night I’ll consider us even, but I’m not going to forget what you did Sherlock, never.”

“I understand John,” Sherlock said, quietly, his head bowed.

“Well, get on with it then,” John said.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and John watched him. The knickers were skimpy, and they rode up between Sherlock’s buttocks, leaving half of each white cheek exposed. John’s hand involuntarily went to his erection as he watched Sherlock walk. He had wanted to punish Sherlock, but he had no idea he was going to enjoy it this much. 

Sherlock went about making breakfast for John, something that almost never happened. He filled the electric kettle and switched it on, popped two slices of bread in the toaster, and opened the new jar of blackberry jam that they had bought at a farmers’ market on a recent trip to the country. All the while, he was acutely aware of the lace barely holding his semi-hard cock and bollocks and riding up between his arse cheeks so that he was constantly reaching back and extracting it. Despite the circumstances, he found that he rather enjoyed making tea and toast for John. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was a complete wanker and never did anything for John, but even after all this time together, Sherlock still often acted like an entitled child, and if the score were being kept, it would show that he didn’t do anywhere near fifty per cent of the domestic chores. John wasn’t keeping score though. They each accepted the other as they were, quirks, and imperfections included. It all evened out in the end.

As Sherlock worked, he felt John’s gaze, and he began to feel less silly, and a bit more -- _sexy_.  He felt a warmth spread up his neck to his cheeks. Bloody hell, he was blushing! When the toast popped up, he buttered it and put it on a plate, added milk to John’s tea, placed the plate, tea and jam on a tray, and carried it into John, setting it on the table beside him.

“Thank you,” John said, taking a sip of tea. “You are free to make yourself something.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said, “but I would like to know the parameters of my punishment. Can I go about my business now, or must I stand here and watch you eat?"

John picked up a piece of toast and spread jam across it as he considered this question.  His cock was rock hard and tenting his pyjama bottoms. He took a bite and chewed slowly. Then he put the toast back on the plate, and a half smile twitched on his lips. 

“Turn around,” he instructed.

Sherlock obediently turned his back to John. John grasped his hips and pulled him back until he was standing between John’s legs with his calves touching the chair.  John then leaned forward and placed a kiss on one white flank, then the other, just below where the lace stopped. His hand found Sherlock’s cock, and he stroked it while continuing to kiss Sherlock’s backside tenderly. Sherlock looked down at John’s hand moving over him, freeing him from the underwear and continuing to stroke, thumb running over the slit and rubbing the pre-ejaculate around the head of his cock. John sucked a love-mark on Sherlock’s buttock, marking his territory. _I own this arse, Stan Hopkins._

Sherlock groaned with pleasure under John’s expert hand and gasped when John abruptly stopped.

“Remember, Sherlock, no orgasm for you today,” John said evilly, turning Sherlock back to face him and pulling the waistband of the knickers back up so that they stopped halfway up Sherlock’s erection. “But I’m most definitely going to come.”

John stood up, dropped his pyjama bottoms to the floor and sat back down in his chair.

“I want you to suck me off now.”

Sherlock immediately dropped to his knees between John’s legs and bent to take John into his mouth.

“No. Wait,” John said, stopping Sherlock by placing a hand under his chin. Then he reached for the jar of blackberry jam. 

“I know this is your favourite.”

John dipped his fingers into the jar and scooped out a generous dollop of jam. With his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, he spread the jam over his cock and bollocks, coating the head and shaft until it looked like a grape ice lolly. He extended his now sticky fingers to Sherlock’s lips.  Sherlock understood. He opened his mouth and enveloped John’s fingers. John closed his eyes. The inside of Sherlock’s mouth was smooth and warm, and he felt his tongue circle his fingertips as Sherlock licked away the jam.   He needed that mouth on his cock. _Now._

He pulled his cleaned fingers from Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock bent to John’s quivering purple erection. Instead of taking it into his mouth right away, he flattened his tongue against the root and licked upward in long smooth strokes. Then he took each testicle by turn into his mouth and sucked off the jam. He pulled up briefly to lick the excess sticky sweetness from his lips before diving back down and taking John entirely into his mouth, as far down his throat as he could, and, sucking off the jam, he pulled slowly, over and over.

John was watching all of this, mouth hanging open, chest heaving, too overcome with pleasure to even speak, Sherlock’s talented mouth working him into a frenzy.  Heat gathered in his belly, and he buried both hands in Sherlock’s hair. “I’m going to come,” he whispered hoarsely. As his sight dimmed and his consciousness narrowed into that pinpoint of exquisite singularity between his legs, he let out a cry and came hard in Sherlock’s sweet blackberry mouth. 

Sherlock swallowed and licked the remaining jam/semen combination from John.  He discovered that blackberry jam improved the taste of semen significantly and filed this information away in his Mind Palace for future reference.  After John released his hair, Sherlock remained on his knees between John’s legs.

Christ, was he a sight.  Hair going every which way, lips swollen, cheeks and chin purple and sticky with residual jam, and his hard cock still poking out from the red lace at his groin. John almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“Oh Sherlock,” John said.

“Good?” Sherlock asked.

“So good,” John answered, pulling him close for a kiss.

 

*****

Sherlock went through the rest of the day in frustration. John had him perform some tiresome domestic tasks, but for the most part, left him alone to work. Still, he was not allowed to touch himself, and couldn't put on any other clothing while puzzling on the case. He lay on the sofa, nearly naked, plastered with nicotine patches, and tried to think. It was impossible. This was torture. He ached for John, who was conspicuously ignoring him.  

Eventually, he made a bit of progress and texted Lestrade with some questions about Carey’s travel to Africa and about the other professors in the anthropology department.  Lestrade did not respond.  He was frankly surprised Greg had not already shown up on their doorstep after the row at the pub last night with Stan. He was going to have be his most charming self, or solve the case quickly, in order to mollify Lestrade and Scotland Yard. Best solve the case, he thought.  Much more fun than to attempt charm. He went to his desk and opened his laptop to do some research. By late afternoon, he had narrowed the possibilities from seven to three.

 

*****

 

That evening they went to dinner at Angelo’s. The delicious secret of the lace knickers under his trousers aroused Sherlock in a way that he had not expected. Except for the not coming aspect, he was beginning to relish this punishment. He wasn’t eating, because of the case, but he did enjoy watching John, who was always up for a meal. They sat close together in the window seat of the restaurant, the seat that was forever reserved for them.  They had a normal conversation. The case, the weather, where they should go on holiday next summer. John wanted to go to the south of France, while Sherlock suggested a quiet countryside getaway in Sussex.

Midway through the meal, Sherlock rested his hand on John’s thigh under the table and began to stroke it. Eventually, he moved his hand higher, then higher still until it was on the zip of John’s trousers. John could feel the weight and the heat of Sherlock’s palm on him, just resting there on his cock and felt it stiffen. John turned to Sherlock and putting his lips near his ear whispered. “You know that if I told you to get under the table and blow me right now, you’d have to do it.”

“I would do it, John, of course, I would,” purred Sherlock. “Are you going to give the order?”

 _Bloody hell, this man’s voice should be illegal_.

John’s dinner was left half-finished on the plate.

When they got home, John practically dragged Sherlock up the stairs, ordered him to undress, get on his hands and knees on the bed, and then fucked him hard without preamble. Sherlock shuddered each time Johns cock passed over his prostate. His own neglected cock bobbed with each thrust and threatened to explode. To keep from climaxing, Sherlock forced his mind to name, one-by-one, each type of tobacco ash he had catalogued.

_Criollo, Dohka, Ecuadorian Sumatra,_

“Oh Sherlock, yes, fuck yes,” grunted John.

 _Brightleaf, Burley, White Burley, Cavendish, Corojo_.

“Don’t you dare come,” hissed John, his breath hot on Sherlock’s shoulder.

_Habano, Habano 2000, Madder, Tuoc Lao…_

John gave one more hard thrust and spilt deep inside Sherlock.  They collapsed to the bed together, John on top of Sherlock, breathless. The friction of the mattress against his aching cock almost sent Sherlock over the edge.

_Perique, Latakia…_

John withdrew, wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and kissed the back of his neck tenderly.  “One more day,” he whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke on Sunday with an erection. He reached for it, then groaned when he remembered that he wasn't allowed to touch. He rolled over and moved his hips, rubbing himself against the sheets. Did this count? He opened his eyes and looked at John’s side of the bed. He was already up. Sherlock rolled onto his back again and sighed.  If he could just make it through this day...

There was another pink box on the bedside table but no note. While still lying in bed, Sherlock pulled off the bow and opened the box. Inside the tissue paper was another pair of knickers. These were made of simple white cotton, trimmed with delicate white lace and covered with tiny bees. One side of Sherlock’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin.  John knew that Sherlock had an affection for bees.  He dangled them above his face, then rubbed the soft material against his cheek.

 

*****

“No wanking!” shouted John through the bathroom door as Sherlock was getting into the shower. I’ve got to go out for a bit.  Harry called and needs me to help her this morning. She’s had some furniture from IKEA delivered, and I’m going to help her put it together. I’d like you to do some hoovering while I’m gone.  Same rules as yesterday. Be back soon love. “

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Hoovering_. How pedestrian.

 

*****

 

 _Still ridiculous_ , he thought as he looked at himself in the mirror. Ridiculous or not, he was quite enjoying the effect all this was having on John. If John would both forgive him and give him another good shagging and some relief when this day was over, then this weekend would have been worth it. He turned and looked over his shoulder into the mirror at his arse. He was getting used to the feeling of wearing the dainty underwear. It felt soft and rather good. What he had still not gotten used to was the feeling of being so exposed, practically naked all the time.   

He made himself breakfast of toast and the blackberry jam. He ate slowly, savouring the sweetness of the jam and thinking about his breakfast of John’s cock yesterday. _No, no, not good, stop thinking about it!_ It was pointless to work himself up if he could do nothing about it, and who knew when John would return. He had to occupy his mind until John got back or he might not be able to hold up his end of the bargain.

He determined that he was going to solve the Carey case today, and there was still the hoovering. He might as well get that out of the way.

Sherlock got out the vac and took a few minutes to figure out how to use it – it had been years since he had done this. He decided that listening to music would help pass the time as he worked. He found his iPod and put the earbuds in, immediately discovering the flaw in his plan. No pockets. He thought a minute and then tucked the iPod into the waistband of the knickers. They were tight enough on him that it was reasonably secure. He switched on the vac and began running it over the rug in the sitting room while listening to Pink Floyd, humming along to one of his favourite tracks, “Breathe.” While he generally preferred classical music, Pink Floyd was his guilty pleasure. As a musician, he was fascinated by the subtlety and nuance of David Gilmour’s playing. He found it simply amazing how he could make every tiny bend, slide, pick, and strum of his guitar mean something. He began to sing along.

 

_Breathe, breathe in the air_

_Don't be afraid to care_

_Leave but don't leave me_

_Look around and choose your own ground_

 

Back and forth over the rug, until finally he looked up and saw…

Mrs Hudson.

She was standing just inside the doorway, holding a plate of biscuits and a small book. Her mouth was drawn into an ‘o’ shape, and her eyes were wide. Sherlock’s eyes met hers, and he froze. They stood there for what seemed an eternity, neither speaking, Sherlock’s mind racing to come up with a plausible explanation.  

“Sherlock!” she said, finally breaking the silence. “What on earth…?”  

Sherlock quickly switched off the vac and pulled out the earbuds. “Just tidying up the flat,” he said with a neutral face, but feeling the heat of a blush on his cheeks. “Ever heard of knocking?” he added.

“I’m sorry! When I heard the hoovering, I just assumed that it was John and… and… well, I’ve made you some biscuits and... I was going to ask him to help me with my Sudoku… and…” She was desperately trying to keep her eyes on Sherlock’s face and not _down there_.  “Oh Sherlock, what are you wearing!”  she could not help but blurt out.

Sherlock hesitated for a split second and then said smoothly. “It’s for a case, Mrs Hudson,” as if this were the most natural and obvious thing in the world. “John’s not here right now, and I thank you for the biscuits, you can leave them on the table. Now I really need to get back to my work. So, if you don’t mind…” he said, with a “please leave” gesture of his hand.

Mrs Hudson looked doubtful about Sherlocks's explanation, but set the biscuits down and hurried from the flat. “It’s all fine you know,” she called back over her shoulder as she left.

After the door closed, Sherlock sunk down into his chair. Oh god that had been embarrassing. He put his face in his hands and started giggling uncontrollably.  After the fit passed, he glanced at the clock.  It was after noon.  He hoped John would get back soon. 

Sherlock spent the next several hours sitting at his desk, going over his notes and the photographs of the Carey case.  Finally, he had it. It was all so obvious.

He texted Lestrade.

SH:   Let John Hopley go and arrest Peter Cairn, the head of the Anthropology Department at King’s College

GL:   ???

SH:  Oh, please. It was never John Hopley OBVIOUSLY!  He is much too small and weak. It took real power to impale Carey to the wall with that spear. I knew we were looking for someone much stronger. Cairn is a bodybuilder.

GL:  Motive?

SH:  They were smuggling diamonds from South Africa, Cairn got greedy and killed Carey so that he would get 100% of the proceeds. They were going to meet last Tuesday night – probably to find a buyer.  The pocket knife was Cairn’s, not Carey’s. Same initials (never make assumptions!). I think you will find the diamonds in a safe deposit box #2400-88 at National Westminster Bank unless they’ve already been sold.

GL:   Diamonds!  How did you figure that out?

SH:   I simply observed, as always.  Details matter. How many times must I tell you this?  I’ll explain later.  I think you’d better get to the bank ASAP.

GL:   You are something else, Sherlock.

SH:   So I’m told. :)

GL:   I’ll check out the safe deposit box.  

Sherlock put down his mobile and smiled to himself.  

There was a knock at the door.  Thinking it was Mrs Hudson again, he opened it and peered out, careful to keep his lower body hidden behind the door. 

It was not Mrs Hudson; it was Stan Hopkins. Stan’s nose was swollen, and he had ugly purple and yellow bruises around his eyes. He did not look happy.

“Sherlock.”

“Stan.”

“I, um, well, Lestrade made me come over here,” said Stan, uncomfortably. He has informed me that I need to apologise to John. 

“Did he now?” smiled Sherlock.

“Yeah and I’d like to get it over with. You were sending out signals you know, I don’t’ think it was all my fault.”

“John’s not here right now, but I’ll pass on your apology.  It isn’t necessary though. He’s the one who hit _you_ after all. And I’m sorry Stan, I shouldn’t have flirted.  I think you should leave now. Right now, please.” Sherlock was still hiding behind the door, and Stan was trying to peer around it, curious.

“Please,” Sherlock said again, urgently. If John came home and saw them together, apology or not, it would not end well.

Stan left, and Sherlock shut the door with a sigh of relief, walked to the window and watched him hail a cab. As the cab pulled to the curb and Stan got in, Sherlock saw John walking up the pavement toward 221B.  John stopped abruptly, stared at the cab, and then looked up to the window where Sherlock was standing. His face was thunderous.

_Fucking fuck!_

John bolted up the seventeen steps to the flat two at a time. He flung open the door and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room. For a split-second, he forgot to be utterly furious as he stared at his gorgeous genius of a boyfriend standing there in just those lacy bee knickers. The split-second passed, and his fury returned.

“What the hell was _he_ doing here?” John bellowed.

“John, calm down, he was only here to apologise to you.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?  Jesus, Sherlock, why are you doing this to me?  Did he see you like this?

“John… No… I...”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” John had closed the distance between them and was standing close to Sherlock now, his face red, and his jaw clenched.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw… _panic, love, and… truth_.  He knew, just _knew_ in the very depths of his soul that Sherlock was telling him the truth.  Sherlock was a master of deceit and manipulation, but at that moment, looking at Sherlock’s stricken face and in those amazing verdigris eyes, John just knew, and his anger ebbed, replaced by something just as raw.

John threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck and smashed his lips against Sherlock’s in a violent kiss. They embraced. John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s arse, slipping under the soft cotton fabric and squeezing. He immediately felt Sherlock stiffen against his belly. John turned them around and pushed Sherlock backward several steps until he met the door. Sherlock spread his legs and slid down the door to equalise their height as John pressed against him, kissing his neck and sucking his earlobe.

John reached down to find Sherlock’s hard cock emerging from the waistband of the knickers.

 _Finally!_ After all this time of being untouched, Sherlock felt John’s hand close around him, and he moaned with pleasure. It was short lived.

“Turn around,” ordered John.

Sherlock turned to face the door and leaned his head and forearms against it, listening to John unfastening and unzipping his jeans. “Oh John, yes, please.”

John slid the underwear down Sherlock’s hips as far as his spread thighs would allow.  Then he pushed his own jeans and pants down, releasing his cock from their confines, but not before pulling a bottle of lube from his jeans pocket. “Click” went the lid as he popped it open. Sherlock inhaled sharply in Pavlovian response.

John lubricated his cock and looked down at Sherlock’s arse and at the small bruise that he had put there yesterday. _Still mine_. Then he slid his cock upward between Sherlock’s buttocks, not penetrating but enveloping himself in Sherlock’s soft flesh, pressing the cheeks together with his hands to increase the friction.  He thrust upward again and again between Sherlock’s buttocks.

 _Not fair!_   Sherlock reached down to touch his aching cock.

“Nope, not yet love,” John said, pinning Sherlock’s wrists to the wall beside his head as he continued to thrust.

Finally, he released Sherlock’s wrists and lubing himself generously, pressed against Sherlock’s opening. Typically, John would have taken pains to prepare him, but he still had a bit of residual anger, and Sherlock was beyond caring. “Do it, John,” panted Sherlock. John took hold of Sherlock’s hips and rolled his own forward, entering Sherlock. Sherlock’s body tensed, and he gasped and made a low whimpering sound. John stopped and waited. _God, he’s tight_.  When Sherlock relaxed, he pulled Sherlock’s hips back slowly until he was bottomed out inside of him. He paused for a moment, savouring the hot tightness that enveloped him and then withdrew and slammed forward again and again. Sherlock braced himself against the onslaught, his face hitting the wall with each thrust. Biting his lip and tasting blood.

This was the way Sherlock liked John, fiery and powerful. This was the John who he had missed these last few months. It was ironic that in their public life, Sherlock always took the alpha male role, but when they were alone, like this, it was usually, but not always, the reverse. Sherlock was not thinking about this as he was being fucked against the door, but he would think about it later.  He would think about how he had deliberately provoked John to elicit this response. How he had hurt John for his own selfish ends, and he would be ashamed.

Sherlock’s legs began to tremble, and John stopped.

“Sofa?” he asked.

“Sofa,” agreed Sherlock.

John withdrew and pulled Sherlock toward the sofa, shedding his remaining clothing along the way. Sherlock lay down on his back and John fell on top of him. They kissed. Sherlock broke the kiss and began, “John, I’m so sorry…”

“Quiet. I know.  It’s OK,” whispered John. John pulled off the knickers and knelt between Sherlock’s legs then took his calves and lifted them over his shoulders. Before entering Sherlock again, he ran his hand over his own cock to transfer lube to his palm and grasped Sherlock as he sank into him. This time he was gentler, slower, watching Sherlock’s face as it contorted in ecstasy. John loved watching Sherlock like this. He rolled his hips and jerked Sherlock, knowing that this was not going to take long. Sherlock was so very ready.

“John” Sherlock mouthed silently as his whole body trembled and he spilt into John’s fist. His arse clenched and John breathed “Oh God, Sherlock”, and he came too. 

When they recovered, John slid out of Sherlock and lay beside him on the sofa, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock played with John’s hair as John traced a fingertip over Sherlock’s chest. They lay together for several minutes without speaking.  Then, Sherlock said the words that John loved to hear, that thrilled him to the very tips of his toes every time.  “Johhhnnn…, Johhhnnn…,” whispered almost like a mantra, or a prayer.  Then they both spoke at once, talking over one another.

“Sherlock, I love you.”

“John, let’s get married.”


	6. Chapter 6

 John was dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Let’s get married.”

John pulled himself up to one elbow staring at Sherlock.

“You’re joking.”

“Have you ever known me to joke, John?”

“No, but I’ve never known you approve of the institution of marriage either.”

“Maybe I’ve changed.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“John, what you said to me Friday, about me only thinking about myself, you were right. I’ve been selfish. You have been working so hard, and I’ve been a complete dick about it. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, and I hurt you on purpose, just to get your attention. You’re also right that I don’t give a toss about marriage, but I know that you do. As far as I’m concerned, I belong to you for the rest of my life and no ceremony, no piece of paper, and no ring is going to change that.  You know I don’t believe in god or fate, but I believe in you, John Watson. I never expected to love anyone, and then I met you. You complete me – I know that sounds like a corny film line, but it’s how I feel.  I can’t imagine life without you, and I want you to be happy.  If getting married will make you happy then it will make me happy too.”

“Sherlock, are you sure? It’s a big step.”

“I’m sure.”

“Sherlock, I love you so much. I probably owe you an apology too for this weekend. I let my jealousy get the better of me.”

“Oh, I enjoyed it immensely, Sherlock grinned. I love it when Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers comes out and takes charge.  Maybe next time I can get you to wear your uniform while you order me around. “

John laughed, then got serious. 

“Sherlock, I want to marry you, I want it more than anything, and I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, and they kissed tenderly. John thought that there was nothing more delicious than Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock thought that there was nothing more warm and constant than John’s love. They fell asleep on the sofa tangled together.


	7. Epilogue

John and Sherlock did get married. It was a simple affair, attended by family and close friends. They exchanged rings and pledged themselves to one another. I was going to say that they lived “happily ever after” but of course this could never be completely true. Sometimes John was tired and cranky. Sometimes Sherlock’s experiments exploded and wrecked the flat. Sherlock still didn’t do his share of the chores. John still wore his hideous jumpers. Sex was sometimes spectacular, and sometimes not. Occasionally, the knickers made an appearance, sometimes jam. Through it all, our boys at 221B loved each other fiercely and well, and really, no one could ask for more than that.


End file.
